by Jane Godman
Rosie was correct, of course. He could not drag her into the sort of scandal that would inevitably ensue if he met Sheridan in a duel. Jack’s eyes flicked over Sheridan’s smug countenance. Anger held him in a grip so tight he couldn’t break free, not even for the plea in Rosie’s eyes.
“Oh, my lady”—the palpable tension was broken by the nursemaid’s voice, as the girl appeared on the doorstep—“it’s mighty glad I am to see you. Master Xander won’t settle without his mama.”
“I will come to him at once, Violet.” Rosie cast a final anxious glance from Jack to her husband. “Thank you again, Lord St. Anton, for coming to my rescue.”
He bowed and watched her as she followed the nursemaid into the house. His voice was low as he turned back to Sheridan. “Convention may prevent me from challenging you to account for your vileness in a duel. God knows, I would love to drive my sword through that black heart of yours for the way you spoke to Rosie and also for your deeds two years ago. But no-one would blame me if I killed you here and now. In fact, I believe there are many who would thank me.”
Sheridan’s smile grew wider. It was not the expression of a rational man. “Kill me and she dies with me.”
Jack shook his head in disbelief. “What sort of sick bastard are you? You would threaten your own wife in an attempt to intimidate me?”
“No threats, my lord. I speak only the truth.”
“You are deranged.” As he studied the man’s countenance, Jack felt a shudder of repugnance run through him. Deranged or evil. Where Sheridan was concerned, there was a fine line between the two.
Sheridan began to laugh, a high-pitched, mirthless sound. “I am not the one who still wears his heart on his sleeve for a woman he lost two years gone by. I am not the talk of the town because of my longing looks and endless sighs…”
Murder really was the only option. That or walk away. Pounding the man into the ground on his own doorstep was probably not the wisest course of action. Reluctantly leaving Sheridan to his laughter, he turned and ran lightly down the steps.
When Jack reached the gig, Jed was regarding the closed door with bewilderment. As Jack prepared to climb back into the vehicle, Jed spoke up in disgust. “You’re never going to leave Lady Rosie with him, Squire?” When Jack did not answer, he added, “You must have windmills in your head!”
“Mustn’t I?” Jack said, half to himself. Then, furiously, he turned back to Jed. “Here, you can drive this blasted contraption and have your meagre brains rattled. Give Thunderer to me!”
Chapter Eight
The following evening, dinner at Lady Drummond’s house was an uncomfortable affair. Even her ladyship, not the most perceptive of hostesses, was subdued. Harry, as always, refused to sit at the same table as Clive, choosing instead to eat from a tray in his room. Rosie and Lady Drummond engaged in desultory conversation to which Clive made no contribution. Instead he sat at the head of the table, watching his wife with an expression of brooding intensity. He did not linger over his port, joining the ladies in the drawing room instead. His presence cast an instant dampener over their discussion about the requisite size and shape of diamanté shoe buckles. Lady Drummond seemed deeply relieved to be able to retire to bed early, leaving Rosie and Clive alone.
Clive joined Rosie, who was seated at a table, flicking through the fashion plates in a periodical, and she braced herself for the inevitable.
“It now becomes urgent that you supply me with the funds I require to pay my debts. You must access your fortune and do so immediately.”
“Clive, even if I wished to do so, you must believe me when I tell you that I do not have access to the capital of my inheritance. It remains in trust until I am five and twenty. Which is still over two years hence.”
“I am afraid that your capital will not be sufficient to save Sheridan Hall. You must find a way to access your brother’s inheritance at once.”
Rosie stared at him in consternation. “But, Clive, how can this be so? You cannot, surely, have allowed things to come to such a pass that Sheridan Hall itself is at risk?”
“Don’t preach to me!” His expression became a snarl, and her stomach muscles tensed. “You are damaged goods, my dear. Whore to a rebel, daughter and sister of— Well, we know what, don’t we? All this before we start on your own crimes. Yet you have the audacity to criticise my conduct? I suggest you take a long, hard look at your character first, madam wife. You are fortunate to have found a man such as I to offer you the protection of his name. But, by God, do I see any gratitude in you? No! You do your damnedest to thwart me at every turn.”
He was lashing himself into one of the rages that Rosie feared and which were becoming increasingly regular and intense. Trying to defuse the situation, she spoke calmly. “I cannot see any further point in pursuing this conversation, Clive. No matter how much we discuss the matter, I wish you would understand that I cannot and—even if I had the means to do so—will not access Harry’s fortune in order to pay your debts.”
“You must listen to me. The men to whom I owe money will no longer be fobbed off with promises or instalments. You saw what they did when I was a mere day or two late with a payment. They will take what they are owed, and take it in my blood if I cross them. My life is at stake here, and you—the very person who should obey me in everything—dare speak to me of what you will not do!” He rose and stood over her, systematically clenching and unclenching his fists. “By God, I can hurt you, Rosie, and I will do so if you continue to oppose me.”
“What else can you do to me, Clive?” She kept her voice level but her eyes flashed a challenge. “You have taken from me the most precious things I had. My father is dead because of you. No matter what allegations you throw at me about Jack, the truth is if he thinks of me at all, it is to pity me, and he has found consolation with another. My poor brother lives in constant fear that you will expose his youthful folly. If you carry out your threats and I am sent to the gallows, you will lose any chance at my inheritance. My fortune will be claimed by the king. I seriously doubt your ability to find another willing woman of fortune—and the Lord knows I am not willing!—to be your wife. Do your worst, you cannot hurt me more than you already have.”
“Don’t push me, Rosie,” he warned, his jaw working in frustration. “Or else I will be forced to show you that I mean what I say.”
Rosie scraped her chair back from the table and sketched him a brief, contemptuous curtsy. “You must excuse me now, Clive. I intend to spend some time with Harry before he goes to bed, and you will, I’m sure, have pressing business matters to which you must attend.”
She did not wait for a reply. As she closed the door behind her, the sound of one of Lady Drummond’s priceless figurines being hurled into the grate made her wince. Her limbs were shaking, and she took a moment to compose herself before making her way up the stairs.
Wrapped in thought, she trod slowly along the corridor to Harry’s bedchamber. He was seated near the window, looking out onto the street below, and appeared lost in his cares. Rosie went to him, and he glanced up, smiling when he saw it was her. Beau thumped his tail in a lazy greeting. Rosie knew how much Harry hated London and how heartily he longed for home. She had kept him with her, initially so that they could help each other through the process of grieving for their father. Now, she realised sadly, she was being selfish to continue to do so. London had lost any charm it might have had for Harry, and he pined for the freedom of the countryside. He also needed to get back to the structure of his lessons with the local curate who tutored him.
“Tom is coming to London to discuss some estate business with me.” She took a seat nearby and clasped his hand in both of hers. “How would you like to return to Delacourt Grange with him when he leaves?”
Harry’s eyes sparkled. “Would I? Oh, by Jove! Wouldn’t I just…” He paused. “But I cannot leave you here, sis, not with that villain.”
“I still do not know why you cannot tell Jack the truth.” He scowled. “He would run Clive through for you!”
“That is exactly why I cannot tell him.” A smile trembled on her lips at the opportunity to talk openly about Jack with someone who loved him too. “The king was ruthless with the rebels after Culloden. Hundreds were executed and thousands transported to the colonies. It is only since the Act of Indemnity that there has been any return to normality for the Jacobites. But if Jack harmed or killed—which would be more likely, if he knew what Clive had done—an Englishman of noble family, he would once again be a wanted man. This time, I am sure, the king would not grant him any leniency. Jack would be executed, or if by some miracle he could escape, he would be forced to spend his days in exile.”
“You could go with him to the continent. A life in France would be preferable to this.”
She did not answer him. If Harry knew he was the reason Rosie could not count the world lost for love and go to Jack regardless of the consequences, he would feel the weight of guilt at his foolishness all over again. She had a duty to care for her brother—it was what her father had asked of her before he died—and she would do so, whatever the personal cost. Harry must, in due course, take his place as master of Delacourt Grange and run the estate with the same care their father had taken. That cycle of obligation to their family heritage must not be broken. And it was she, not Harry, who had brought Jack into their lives. She who, by loving Jack, had enraged Clive, leading him to inform against them to the redcoats. She who had fired the shot that killed Captain Overton on that fateful night. And it was she who continued to thwart and anger Clive over the matter of money. If there was blame to be apportioned here, Rosie was willing to take her fair share.
“I thought you loved Jack and he loved you.”
Rosie remained silent for a moment. “We thought so too, for a while,” she answered eventually. “But we were mistaken.”
Harry studied her face thoughtfully. “No.” He shook his head decisively. “You cannot fool me, sis. I still think you love him. In fact, I know you do.”
* * *
“You cannot be serious, child.” Lady Drummond could hardly have looked more shocked had Rosie announced her intention of walking the length of the Mall in her shift and stays. “You simply cannot be too careful of your reputation, my dear. People will think you are quite odd.” Despite her genuine agitation, Rosie noticed that Lady Drummond devoured a staggering number of sweet biscuits, each one dipped into a cup of thick hot chocolate.
It was not her ladyship’s usual custom to rise so early. But she had promised to spend the day with an old friend who lived in Kensington—“quite dreadfully unmodish, my dear, but then she was always an eccentric. Why, when we were girls she positively enjoyed reading books and was quite open about it”—and was trying to persuade Rosie to accompany her. Serenely, Rosie had revealed that she was going on a visit of her own. Sir Hans Sloane, that famous, but now retired, collector of curiosities had kindly agreed to show her his natural history collection. It was this announcement that had caused Lady Drummond’s distress, and she eyed her young guest in much the manner she would regard a coiled python.
“It is what Harry would enjoy above all things,” Rosie told her firmly.
“Yes, but why must you be the one to accompany him? Can he not go with one of the footmen?” A glimmer of hope lightened Lady Drummond’s morose expression.
“Absolutely not, I get little enough time with him as it is, my lady.” Rosie would not be swayed from her standpoint. “Anyhow, I shall enjoy it immensely myself, and Xander will accompany us, so it will be a family outing.”
“I declare, ’tis most unnatural in you.” Lady Drummond, accepting defeat, rose to prepare for her journey into unfashionable parts, pausing at the door to plead with Rosie, in a fading voice, “Pray, child, for my sake, do not reveal where you have been to a soul.”
After reassuring her, Rosie glanced at the clock. There was still no sign of Harry, usually the earliest of risers. Even more surprising was the fact that the breakfast table had not been granted the favour of an appearance from Beau. Normally, his greediness knew no bounds whenever food was served. He could be relied upon to materialise and give a passable impersonation of a dog that had not been fed for days. She wondered if Harry might have stayed up late reading and the two of them had overslept. Or perhaps they had risen early and already gone out. When Harry had still not emerged by the time she finished her breakfast, she decided to check on him before making her way to Xander’s nursery.
Receiving no reply to her knock, she entered Harry’s bedchamber and was surprised to find the room still in darkness.
“Are you unwell, dearest?”
As she tiptoed towards the bed, there was no reply and no answering thump of Beau’s tail. A sense of foreboding assailed Rosie, and she hurried to the window, throwing wide the heavy drapes. Harry’s bed had not been slept in, and a folded slip of paper rested on the pillows. Uneasily, she picked it up and read the single line across its front.
You may count on me, sis.
When she opened the paper out with a trembling hand, she found it contained a brief note addressed to her. It was written in Clive’s scrawling script.
You were unwise to cross me, madam. I warned you not to force my hand. The child in exchange for the money. Since he means naught to me, you would be wise to agree. Clive
Rosie’s hand flew to cover her mouth in a moment of panic. When she told Clive he no longer had the power to hurt her, she had believed he was threatening to do her physical harm. She thought it was the bluster of a thwarted bully. Not this. She had not anticipated that his threats would lead him to turn his menace against her son. Why did I leave Xander alone last night?
Perhaps it wasn’t true. Maybe it was simply Clive posturing to scare her. Maybe he didn’t mean Xander when he wrote of “the child”. Gathering her skirts in her hand, she ran up the flight of stairs that led to the nursery wing.
Bursting in through the door, she took in the startled face of the second nursemaid and her heart sank further. “Where is my son?”
The girl bobbed a curtsy. “My lady, Sir Clive bade us make him ready last night. He said to pack some of the young master’s things because they were going on a journey. Violet was surprised because you had made no mention of a journey, but the master said you were unwell and would be joining them later.”
Rosie didn’t wait to hear any more. Rushing down the wide staircase, she had only one thought—to instantly set off after them. She was halted in her tracks by the sound of Lady Drummond’s impending departure and her instructions to the butler. Peering over the bannister, Rosie viewed the scene below.
“Since I will be taking the carriage, you will need to procure a hack for Lady Sheridan and Master Harry. They are going to view Sir Hans Sloane’s curiosities.”
“Master Harry, my lady? But he left the house just after midnight and has not returned.” Despite his impassive tones, the butler somehow conveyed his disapproval.
“Left the house at midnight? Nonsense!” From her vantage point, Rosie could see Lady Drummond drawing on her gloves. She wanted to rush down and shake her or shout out at her to hurry up and leave.
“Indeed he did, my lady. Master Harry and his dog dashed out mere minutes after Sir Clive departed in a hired carriage.” The butler gave a discreet cough. “The young gentleman was rather perturbed.”
Lady Drummond might enjoy a gossip with her peers, but she was staunchly against overfamiliarity from her servants. Her voice was cold when she spoke again. “It would seem you have been the subject of one of Master Harry’s tricks, Archibald. I know you have been somewhat busy, what with one of the footmen disappearing so inconveniently, but strive for a little more sense. Be so good as to hold the door.”
&n
bsp; The depth of the butler’s bow signified the sincerity of his apology. As Rosie waited while Lady Drummond checked she had her various belongings, Rosie struggled to gain a measure of control over her thoughts. Clive had left the house after midnight, presumably taking Xander and Violet with him. Somehow, it seemed that Harry had discovered his intention. Harry must have found the note addressed to her in the nursery, added a brief line of his own and left it in his own room, presumably when he fetched his hat and cloak in preparation to follow Clive. Not only was her precious infant son in Clive’s power, her hotheaded young brother had also—although clearly with the best of intentions—placed himself in danger.
They were ahead of her by half a day already. She had an inkling of where Clive might have gone, although she was working on pure conjecture. She had never felt so alone or powerless.
Think. She forced herself to focus. There must be someone who can help you find them and bring them home safe. Only one person came to mind. But how could she ask Jack to assist her now when she had determinedly shunned all his earlier offers of help? I cannot go to him. I must do this myself.
As she turned to make her way up to her room, the sounds of an arrival drew her attention to the hall below her once more. She paused, hoping against hope it might be Clive returning. Perhaps he had regretted the angry impulse that had led him to remove Xander from her care. Or, if it was not Clive, maybe Harry had actually achieved the impossible and managed to snatch Xander away from Clive. It might even—her heart gave an eager thud—be Jack. Had he, with that remarkable extra sense he had, somehow known that she needed him?
It was none of those, but it was the next best thing, and Rosie gave a cry of mingled relief and joy when Tom Drury strode through the front door, dominating the hall with his reassuring bulk. She ran down to him, clasping his hand and almost dragging him into the drawing room, barely shutting the door behind them before blurting out, “Oh, Tom, I am so glad you are here. You have no idea how much I need you. Clive has taken Xander and Harry has gone after him.” Her voice broke as the panicky tears she had been fighting to suppress threatened to overwhelm her.
